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T. LOBSANG RAMPA FEEDING THE FLAME (Edition: 22/04/2021) Feeding the Flame — (Originally published in 1971) The first ten books were trying to light the candle, but now we have to feed the flame, the flame of life. More reader's questions & answers. Absolute proof of reincarnation by quoting an instance in history and explaining that event in detail. 1/269 It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. The Coat of Arms is surrounded by a Tibetan rosary made up of one hundred and eight beads symbolising the one hundred and eight books of the Tibetan 2/269 Kangyur. In personal blazon, we see two rampant seal point Siamese cats holding a lit candle. In the upper left-hand of the shield we see the Potala; to the right- hand of the shield, a Tibetan prayer wheel turning, as shown by the small weight which is over the object. In the bottom, left-hand of the shield are books to symbolise the talents of writer and knowledge of the author, whereas to the right-hand side of the shield, a crystal ball to symbolise the esoteric sciences. Under the shield, we can read the motto of T. Lobsang Rampa: ‘I lit a candle’. 3/269 Table of contents Table of contents ....................................................... 4 Chapter One .............................................................. 8 Chapter Two ............................................................ 32 Chapter Three .......................................................... 54 Chapter Four ............................................................ 75 Chapter Five ............................................................ 96 Chapter Six ............................................................ 120 Chapter Seven ....................................................... 144 Chapter Eight ........................................................ 169 Chapter Nine ......................................................... 195 Chapter Ten ........................................................... 220 Chapter Eleven ...................................................... 245 Chapter Twelve ..................................................... 261 As Dr Lobsang Rampa lay, desperately ill, in a Canadian hospital, he looked up with pleasure to see his old friend and mentor, the Lama Mingyar Dondup, standing by his bedside. But it was with some dismay that he listened to the message that the Golden Figure had brought. 4/269 Lobsang Rampa's work on this plane was not, as he thought, completed; he had to write another book, his eleventh, for there was still more of the mystic truth to be revealed to the world. Here then is that eleventh book. Feeding the Flame is mainly concerned with answering some of the many questions which Dr Rampa's readers have put to him over the years. It covers such subjects as Life after Death, Suicide, Meditation and Ouija Boards, and includes many invaluable observations on the modern world. Dr Rampa's many admirers will be delighted that, despite the pain and suffering of his illness, he has been spared to write this fascinating and inspiring book. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dedicated to Cleopatra, the most intelligent person I have ever met, and to Tadalinka, the most clairvoyant and the most telepathic. These two little Siamese cats showed me great understanding and sympathy. Never say: "Stupid animals". These two are intelligent, civilised PERSONS ! The most loyals of loyals. 5/269 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * FEEDING THE FLAME It saves a lot of letters if I tell you why I have a certain title; it is said, ‘It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.’ In my first ten books I have tried to light a candle, or possibly two. In this, the eleventh book, I am trying to Feed the Flame. RACE OF TAN Copper is this man, 6/269 A man of daytime white, Yellow is that man, And one of dark night . The four main colours, All known as Man, Tomorrow's unity will come Forming the Race of Tan. Poem by W. A. de Munnik of Edmonton, Alberta. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 7/269 Chapter One The more you know the more you have to learn. The letter was short, sharp, and very much to the point. “Sir,” it said, “why do you waste so much paper in your books; who likes to read these pretty-pretty descriptions of Tibet? Tell us instead how to win the Irish Sweepstake”. The second one followed the theme very well. “Dear Dr Rampa” wrote this brash young person, “Why do you waste so much time writing about the NEXT life? Why not tell us how to make money in this one? I want to know how to make money now. I want to know how to make girls do what I want now. Never mind the next life, I'm still trying to live this one.” The Old Man put down the letter and sat back shaking his head sadly. “I can write only in my own way,” he said, “I am writing TRUTH, not fiction, so . .” Fog lay heavy on the river. Trailing tendrils swirled and billowed, redolent of sewage and garlic it swept yellow feelers like a living creature seeking entry to any habitation. From the invisible water came the urgent hoot of a tug, followed by furious yells in the French-Canadian patois. Overhead a dark red sun 8/269 struggled to pierce the odorous gloom. The Old Man sitting in his wheelchair peered disgustedly around at the clammy building. Water dripped mournfully from some mouldering concrete wall. A vagrant breeze added a new dimension to the world of smells conjured up by the fog—decaying fish-heads. “Pah!” muttered the Old Man, “What a crummy dump!” With that profound thought, he propelled his chair back into the apartment and hastily closed the door. The letter thumped through the letter-box. The Old Man opened it and snorted. “No water tonight,” he said, “no heat either.” Then, as an after-thought, “and it says that for some hours there will be no electricity because some pipe or something has burst.” “Write another book” said the People on the Other Side of Life. So the Old Man and Family Old Man went off in search of quiet. Quiet? Blaring radios, rumbling hi-fi's, and yowling children shrieking through the place. Quiet? Gaping sight-seers peering in through windows, banging on doors, demanding answers to stupid questions. A dump where quiet is not, a pad where nothing is done without immense effort. A pipe leaks, one reports it. Much later a plumber arrives to see it himself. He reports it to his superior, the Building Superintendent. HE comes to see it before reporting it to ‘the Office’. ‘The Office’ reports it to his Superior. He gets on the 9/269 telephone, a conference is held. Much later a decision is reached. Back it comes from ‘Montreal Office’ to the Superior who tells the Building Superintendent who tells the plumber who tells the tenant that “Next week, if we have time, we will do it”. ‘A crummy dump’ is how one person described it. The Old Man had no such delicate way of describing the place. Actions speak louder than words; long before his tenancy expired the Old Man and Family left, before they died in such squalid surroundings. With joy they returned to the City of Saint John and there, because of the strains and stresses in Montreal, the Old Man's condition rapidly worsened until, very late at night, there was an urgent call for an ambulance, hospital . The gentle snow came sliding down like thoughts falling from the heavens. A light dusting of white gave the illusion of frosting on a Christmas cake. Outside, the stained glass window of the cathedral gleamed through the darkness and shed vivid greens and reds and yellows on the falling snow. Faintly came the sounds of the organ and the sonorous chant of human voices. Louder, from right beneath the window, came the music of a tomcat ardently singing of his Love. The hiss of braking tires on the snow-clad road, the metallic clang of car doors slamming and the shuffle of overshoe-clad feet. A fresh congregation filing in to the 10/269 evening service. Muttered greetings as old friends met, and passed. The solitary tolling of a tenor bell exhorting the tardy to hurry. Silence save for the muted buzz of distant traffic in the city. Silence save for the amorous tomcat singing his song, pausing for a reply, and commencing all over again. Through a broken pane of the cathedral window, smashed by a teen-age vandal, came a glimpse of the robed priest in solemn procession, followed by swaying, jostling choir boys singing and giggling at the same time. The sound of the organ swelled and diminished. Soon came the drone of a solitary voice intoning ancient prayers, the rumble of the organ and again a glimpse of robed figures returning to the vestry. Soon there came the sound of many footsteps and the slamming of car doors. The sharp bark as engines coughed into life, the grating of gears and the whirring of wheels as the cathedral traffic moved off for another night. In the great building lights flicked off one by one until at last there was only the pale moonlight shining down from a cloudless sky. The snow had ceased, the congregation had gone, and even the anxious tomcat had wandered off on the eternal quest. In the Hospital facing on to the cathedral, the night staff were just coming on duty. At the Nurses' Station, just facing the elevators, a lone Intern was giving last- minute instructions about the treatment of a very sick 11/269 patient. Nurses were checking their trays of drugs and pills. Sisters were writing up their Reports, and a flustered Male Orderly was explaining that he was late on duty through being stopped for speeding by a policeman. Gradually the Hospital settled down for the night. ‘No Breakfast’ signs were fixed on the beds of patients due for operations the next day. Main lights were extinguished and white-clad attendants moved to a screened bed.

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